I imagine the woman I have just killed despaired of the way the neighbours behind keep their garden.
From the kit bag slung over his back, Sallum took out a Hensoldt 6 X 42 sniper rifle sight. The German-manufactured sight, as well as being one of the most expensive telescopic sights in the world, was the only one that fitted the Heckler & Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle that Sallum preferred for shooting at distance. He held the Hensoldt to his right eye. At up to six hundred metres it gave perfect vision; it was less than fifty metres to the house opposite, and he could see straight in. One light was burning in what he took to be the kitchen, and another was visible on the first floor. Scanning the other windows, he couldn't make out any sign of movement.
Never mind, he told himself. They will be there soon.
The smell rose from the body as if it were an open sewer: a harsh, putrid stench of decaying flesh, sweaty clothes and unwashed hair. The skin had started to turn grey, and the limbs were showing signs of softening.
He had seen enough of them in his time, but Matt had never grown used to the scent of a corpse.
'Let's get him upstairs,' said Ivan.
A clump of hair came off in Matt's hand as he grabbed Whitson's head. He cast it aside, lifted the corpse by the shoulders from under the floorboards, and started climbing the stairs. Ivan took the legs and lifted the body clear of the ground. They stopped on the first floor landing, propping Whitson up against the wall. His head slumped forward and one of his eyes fell open. 'The trick is to make him look alive,' said Ivan. 'Back home we used to pull this one regularly on the Army. Get a corpse, make him look like a live one, let the soldiers think they've shot him, and when they come over to inspect the body, you blow them up.' Ivan chuckled. 'Worked like a dream.'
Matt glanced down at Whitson's corpse: he looked like a stiff, and a badly decaying one at that. 'Christ, even when he was alive this bloke looked half-dead.'
'Wash him up, and put some powder on his cheeks, that will freshen him,' said Ivan. 'At a distance, he'll look alive. When you're about to shoot a man, you don't spend a lot of time checking how well he's looking.'
The barrel of the Heckler & Koch PSG-1 would have been just visible at the first floor window: an inch of black metal emerging from a circular hole cut into the glass. The rifle was mounted on a black metal frame that held it perfectly still. Behind it, Sallum stood completely motionless, the lights all switched off around him, his eye level with the Hensoldt sight.
Sallum had played out the sequence of events a hundred times in his head: his preparation was always immaculate, and it was only through constant mental and physical training that he felt certain he could always claim victory over the odds. He would wait here until one of the two men in the house revealed themselves at the window, then he would shoot him with the rifle. When he was dead, he would rush through the garden, scale the fence and start his assault on the building. One man he felt certain he could defeat. That was why it was vital he shot the other one before he went inside.
He glanced down at his watch. It was eleven-fifteen at night, and he had been in position for three hours. His shoulder was starting to ache where the butt of the rifle was jabbing into the muscle, and the skin around his right eye was sore from being pressed against the sight. The waiting, he reflected to himself. That is when our strength is tested.
He glanced up to the sky. A moon was shining down and the stars were burning brightly. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a police car rushing towards Hammersmith Broadway, and down on King Street he could hear some boys getting into a closing-time punch-up. Soon I will be back in the Empty Quarter, in my homeland, he thought to himself. As soon as the railway bomb was delivered, he would leave the country and hide in the Saudi wilderness for a year or more. He longed for the cleanliness and purity of the desert.
A movement — a glimpse of a man's head moving across the first-floor window. Sallum pressed his eye closer to the sight, keeping his finger poised on the rifle's trigger. A man, definitely — he had vanished from view, but he had looked as if he was heading to the bathroom. That meant he would be back in a minute or two. Sallum composed himself. The moment of attack was approaching.
His mind drifted to thoughts of his friend Atta, who had led the attacks on the Great Satan with such spectacular success on 11 September 2001. A fine, upstanding man, Sallum still regarded him as the noblest individual he had ever met, and envied his martyr's death. He looked forward to being reunited with him and the other fallen comrades in the kingdom of Allah. Just before the attacks, Atta had given each one of the martyrs a notebook to inspire them, and he had given one to Sallum as well. He had memorised it by heart, and one passage leapt into his mind now as he waited for the target to re-emerge.
'Completely forget something called "this life". The time for play is over and the serious time is upon us,' Atta had written. He'd told them to consult the sura of the Koran called al Anfa, or the Spoils of War. Under his breath, Sallum recited the fines Atta had instructed them to commit to memory: 'Remember how they said: "O Allah! If this is indeed the truth from Thee, rain down on us a shower of stones from the sky, or send us a grievous Penalty."'
Another movement. Even at a distance of fifty metres Sallum could make out a flash of hair, and beneath it the skin of a man's forehead. He steadied his arm, lining up the sights with the man's head, checked that it was perfectly aimed, then softly squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded from the barrel of the gun, smashing through the window of the house opposite. Glass shattered and Sallum could see the bullet colliding with the head of the man. Through the telescopic sights, he could see fragments of skull splintered against the wall, and body dropping to the ground.
Sallum paused, waiting to see if the target stood up. Nothing. The victory was his, he decided, a smile of professional satisfaction on his face. He unhooked the PSG-1 from its stand, holding it in his right hand, and ran down to the kitchen and out into the garden. He scaled the back fence in one swift movement, landing just next to the rusty swing. The moment for the assault was here.
Four of the thieves are dead, and the fifth man is about to die. The anger of the Prophet will be satiated.
TWENTY-TWO
Alison walked alone through the woods. The trees were swaying in a wind that was picking up speed and force as it blew in through the English Channel and swept across the open Kent countryside. Dark clouds were drifting in from the west, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the rattle of a thunderstorm.
She paused, looking up at the sky. The collar of her green Barbour jacket was hoisted up around her neck, and her throat was protected by a red silk Hermès scarf. Her green Wellington boots were almost new, and the mud was sticking to the soles as she trampled across the wet ground. In her hand she was holding a single sheet of paper and a compass. As she walked, she was measuring her paces, as if she was counting them out. She was searching for something.
The mobile rang twice in her pocket. She fished it out and held it to her ear. 'Hi,' she said. 'It's me.'
Her head nodded twice as she listened to the voice on the line. 'We have to be certain they are dead,' she said. 'We have to be certain it was them.' She paused, listening to the reply. 'That's great news. And what about bin Assaf — has he been picked up?' Another pause. 'Great. Without him, the whole network is going to fall apart. If we rough him up enough, we might even get him to tell us who all their people are across Europe. Particularly now he has finished off Matt and Ivan for us, all we need to do is alert every port and airport and border and make sure we pick him up as soon as we can.'